


Their Real First Date

by Crowgirl, potteralda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Episode Related, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Reference to Previous Relationships, established relationship (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteralda/pseuds/potteralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Unwanted, uninvited, undated, unangelic---his life lately seemed to involve almost nothing but ‘un’s.</i>
</p><p>You knew they didn't just kiss, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Real First Date

Dean and Castiel sit side by side in the car and don’t look at each other.

It isn’t as if there’s anything particularly fascinating outside the windshield: just an empty parking lot. The streetlights have just come on at the far end, a few dozen yards away, and the light’s glistening off asphalt recently streaming with rain.

Castiel focuses his eyes on a trickle of water making its way down the side gutter of the windshield, making a bet with himself -- a bet! since when did he make bets? oh, yes, since he met the man sitting stolidly silent beside him -- as to whether it would split in two before or after it reached the windshield wiper. He loses: it splits in _three_ and misses the wiper entirely.

No matter how many angels he kills, he doesn’t think it will get any easier: the scream, the light of escaping Grace, the blood on his hands. It doesn’t seem to make it any easier that this time, Cas was meant to be the victim, that he was saving his own life. It was still an angel, still one of his brothers-- _had been_ one of his brothers. Until Cas had become something so broken that only a merciful death was the solution. 

Cas remembers looking in Ephraim’s eyes and knowing he could never explain. How could he? They didn’t have the same terms for anything any more. What was he going to say to the angel of mercy that could possibly explain precisely how good the first apple he had eaten during an Ohio September had tasted? Or exactly how the world smelled after a thunderstorm? Or what he had felt like the first time Dean held his hand? All of that was why he was going to fight -- and Ephraim would understand none of it.

Dean clears his throat, shifts -- and stays silent, the fingers of one hand loosely hooked on the bottom of the steering wheel.

They haven’t spent this much time together since Cas had been unceremoniously disinvited from the bunker. Castiel shrugs deeper into the seat against the chill of the memory.

Unwanted, uninvited, undated, unangelic---his life lately seemed to involve almost nothing but ‘un’s. 

Castiel wonders if Dean is trying to figure out how to invite him back into the bunker now he's proved he can be of use despite being merely human. The bitterness of the thought surprises him at first, but he welcomes it; it’s better than self-pity. He lets it rise and beat in his chest: is he worth _nothing_ without his Grace? his knowledge, his experience count for _nothing?_ and -- and what about the other things? the kisses, the awkward groping and the stifled laughter in the backseat of the car, that one bar where the men’s restroom door locked and he had actually gotten to---

‘Dean, why did--’

‘Cas, I wanted to--’

Their voices clash and both fall silent, Dean grimacing at the steering wheel. Castiel seizes the advantage. ‘Is it so hard for you that I don't have my Grace any more?’

‘What?’

‘Now that I'm...that I'm not-- That I'm human.’

‘I--uh--’ Dean blinks -- Castiel can see the quick flicker of his eyes in the reflected streetlight. ‘I mean...you're...weird, but--’

‘But you do not...want me around anymore.’ _To want me_ remains unsaid.

‘What? No!’ Dean jerks around towards him, shaking his head. ‘No, no, that’s not -- it’s not -- that’s _nothing_ like--’

‘Because,’ Castiel interrupts, the bitterness gaining sway, ‘you could not be rid of me fast enough. Once I was only _human.’_

Dean winces. ‘Cas--’

‘I could understand -- if -- if I was not worth your time after that,’ Castiel breaks in again. If this is going to hurt, then he wants it to hurt _now_ ; he’s tired of having it drag around after him, like a heavy weight at the back of his thoughts all the time. He knows it is probably what Dean would describe as ‘pathetic, man, really pathetic,’ but he can’t help it; he’s tried. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s thought he saw Dean coming into the store or thought he saw the Impala turning the corner -- and squeezed into the uncomfortable backroom he’s had to make into a living space, he still dreams of Dean.

‘That’s not it, Cas.’ Dean is staring out the windshield again but his hands are tight around the steering wheel. Castiel thinks he is probably wishing he could simply start the car and drive away. ‘That’s not it at _all.’_

Castiel waits but nothing else comes and that, for some reason, is the last straw, the last silence, the last half-finished sentence he can take. ‘Then what _is_ it? Tell me what the _fuck--’_ He sees Dean start and relishes it. ‘--what the _fucking_ fuck is going on!’ 

‘Cas, I--’

‘You suddenly realised I wasn’t good enough for you? I wasn’t _enough_ for you? I wasn’t -- wasn’t _bad-ass_ enough for you? I was good -- I was good enough to screw but not good enough to take home, is that it?’ He really isn’t planning out any of this; he’s just opening his mouth and letting words out. If he sounds like someone off that Lifetime channel Dean hates so much, then so be it! There’s a hot throbbing in his chest and his temples and his hands are opening and closing, making fists. He’s not entirely sure but he’s pretty sure he’d like to hit Dean.

 _‘Cas--’_ There’s agony in Dean’s voice, outright pain -- and what finally snaps Castiel’s last shred of patience is that he wants to lean over and kiss it away.

‘Fuck _this!_ \-- fuck _you.’_ Castiel slams out of the car, shutting the door hard enough to make the vehicle rock on its springs.

‘Cas, no, wait--’ Dean is in front of him before Castiel can do more than take a step or two. ‘Look, please, man -- it’s not like that, I fucking _swear._ You gotta believe me--’

‘I do? I _gotta_ believe you?’ Castiel crosses his arms over his chest, raises his eyebrows. ‘I have done nothing but believe you for _years,_ Dean. _Years.’_

‘No, I know, I--’

‘And you have done nothing but use me!’ It isn’t true, Castiel _knows_ it isn’t true -- but he also knows it _feels_ true. ‘When I was a good resource you made use of me and when I was no longer any use, you--’

 _‘No!’_ Dean reaches out to grab Castiel’s arm and Castiel swings without thinking.

Dean hits the pavement with a thud, landing on ass and elbows and ending in an ungraceful sprawl of limbs on the damp asphalt. ‘Jesus... _fuck...’_

Castiel freezes, knuckles burning from the punch, and stares at Dean. It looks for a shocking minute as though his face is covered in blood, freckles and tan both disappearing under red smear. Instinctively, Castiel reaches for Grace -- and finds nothing but emptiness. 

Dean touches the tip of his nose gingerly, then pokes it with a finger. ‘Who taught you to hit?’ His voice is nasal and clogged-sounding and he swipes blood off his face with the back of his hand.

Castiel wrings his hand, flexing his fingers to get rid of the burn and the jammed feeling in his knuckles. ‘You. And Bobby.’

‘Right, right...’ Dean sucks in a deep breath through his mouth and pushes himself to his feet. ‘Give me a minute, okay?’ He fishes behind the passenger seat and comes out with a mostly clean cotton rag, probably the remains of a t-shirt, and swabs at his face.

Castiel waits, shoving his hands into his pockets to avoid the impulse to offer help. If he still had his powers, if he was still _whole,_ then-- He’s shivering slightly, too, but he hopes Dean can’t see that.

‘It’s not you, okay, Cas?’ Dean’s voice is a little muffled behind the rag as he mops the last blood off his cheekbones. 

‘Did I break your nose?’ Castiel asks.

‘No.’ Dean wrinkles it and winces, pressing a clean fold of the rag against his upper lip to stem a last slow trickle of blood. ‘Not quite.’

‘I can always try again.’

‘What?’

‘“It’s not me?”’ Castiel mimics Dean’s delivery. ‘I believe that is what _you_ would call the oldest line in the book.’

Instead of snapping something back, perhaps egging him into another punch which is what Castiel expects, Dean sighs and seems to slump a little. He swipes the rag over the damp roof and does a last pass over his face, then tosses the bloodstained cloth back into the car. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘Okay, yeah, you’re right. It _is_ the oldest line in the book and it _is_ a shitty thing to say to you.’ Dean scrubs his palms over the thighs of his jeans. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

‘I think you don’t care,’ Castiel snaps.

‘Then you think fucking _wrong!'_ Dean snaps back, taking a step forward until they’re nearly toe to toe. Castiel can smell the tang of fresh blood and see a half-dried smear under Dean’s left ear. His hand twitches to reach out and smooth it away. 

‘I care, all right? I didn’t _want_ to ask you to leave. I--fuck, Cas, _why_ do you think I’d want you to go!’

‘Perhaps you found another girl.’ The words come out before Castiel can think and his throat locks. Not another angel, another man, another hunter -- another _girl_. And if that wasn’t the biggest give-away in the world, he didn’t know what was. 

Dean looks at him for a long minute, then jerks his head back towards the car. ‘C’mon. Let me buy you a beer.’

‘What?’ 

Dean takes a step back and opens the passenger door, gesturing to the inside. He repeats patiently: ‘Let me buy you a beer.’

Castiel grits his teeth. ‘Dean, I am _not--’_

‘C’mon, Cas, please. Just -- don’t make me beg, okay?’

* * *

Dean drives them back to a bar a few streets away, one they’d passed coming into town. It’s precisely the kind of place Castiel is used to seeing the brothers in: slightly dingy, not quite dirty, lit almost equally by low-wattage light bulbs and neon signs, the mirror-backed bar reflecting bright rows of bottles. There’s the ubiquitous pool table -- three of them, in fact -- tucked away to the right of the bar; the rest of the space is taken up with small tables and, around the bar itself, tall, leather-topped stools. It smells remarkably clean, not of stale beer or illicit cigarette smoke.

Castiel pauses in the door, something in his chest twisting. This was the sort of place he and Dean would manage to find after Sam was asleep or deep in research. The kind of place with high-backed booths, dim corners, cheap pitchers where Dean could drink and Castiel could watch him. Perhaps that is part of what hurts so badly now, Castiel reflects a little grimly; he had never been able to tell if he had been wanted or simply there. 

Cas slides into a table near the wall, watches Dean effortlessly charm the girl behind the bar out of two whiskeys. He’s not sure if it makes it worse or better that Dean simply doesn’t _know_ he’s doing it -- the girl reads more into a grin and a pair of bright eyes than Dean knows to put there. The fact that it works on Castiel almost as well doesn’t make it less annoying. He wants to think he had understood rightly before; that Dean’s silences had been welcoming, his touches born of desire -- the same desire it had taken Castiel too long to realise he shared with Dean. Or thought he had shared. Maybe he’d been alone in it all the time.

Dean slides a glass across to him and sits down. ‘Got your favorite.’

Castiel does not look up because he knows if he does, Dean will smile at him and -- _damn him_ \-- he will smile back. ‘Why did you want to do this?’

Dean grimaces and tosses back the whiskey at a gulp. ‘’cause if I’m gonna do stupid shit, I like to do it on a drink.’

Castiel pushes his own glass across the table. ‘It will take more than this if you wish to take me with you.’

Dean stares at him for a minute, then rubs a hand over his face. ‘Jesus, Cas -- fuck -- _no,_ that wasn’t what I meant.’ He stares at the glass for a minute, then empties it. ‘Look, I _had_ to get you out of the bunker, okay? and I _had_ to say yes, Cas, I had to.’

‘Say yes? Say yes to what?’

Dean closes his eyes. ‘Ezekiel. I _had_ to. I couldn’t-- Sam was gonna die!’

Castiel stares at him for a long minute then gets up, goes to the bar, gets two more shots of whiskey, and returns to the table. He puts one glass in front of Dean and sits down to the other. He takes a sip. ‘You are telling me -- you are telling me that your brother is a vessel now.’

Dean nods miserably. ‘I just -- Cas -- It was either that or watch him die. Again. And--’

Castiel holds up his hand. ‘Enough. I know.’ He rolls the base of the glass on the table for a minute then downs the rest. ‘Well. There are worse angels than Ezekiel. At least there’s that.’

Dean nods again, lifts his glass, then puts it down again. ‘So. Yeah. I...kinda wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.’

‘Will something happen to Sam?’

Dean digs in his pocket and pulls out his cellphone. He clicks it on and watches the screen for a minute. Then he drops it on the table and shrugs. ‘No alarm bells yet.’

 _Back in the bunker,_ Castiel thinks grimly. It wasn’t even as if it had been a nice place -- it wasn’t. It was grimy and dark and chilly and stuffy and---

‘So. My turn.’ Dean slugs back the whiskey and drops his hand back to the table. ‘What’s with this woman?’

‘What?’ Castiel blinks at him, train of thought momentarily derailed. ‘What woman?’

‘Oh, nice, dude; you forgot her already?’

‘Oh! No. April. What’s -- what about her?’

‘Why _her?’_ Dean’s mouth twists a little. ‘She wasn’t -- I mean, she --’

‘She seemed nice.’

‘Nice enough to take you for a ride,’ Dean mutters.

‘It wasn’t as though anyone _else_ was interested,’ Castiel returns sharply.

A deep flush spreads over Dean’s cheekbones and he looks up, eyes a little over-bright from the whiskey. ‘Y’know, you could’ve asked me!’

‘Asked you what, exactly?’

‘Asked me...asked me...’ Dean fumbles and Castiel’s temper takes over again.

‘Asked you for the precise list of reasons why you were inviting me out of your family?’

‘Jesus, Cas! Is _that_ what you thought I was doing!’ The shock in Dean’s eyes is as plain as if Castiel had leaned across the table and slapped him.

‘Isn’t it?’ Castiel hugs his anger tight, his resentment tighter. If life as a human has taught him anything, it’s that anger and resentment are important. ‘All my experience, anything I know or learned or---’

‘I didn’t -- I wasn’t -- that’s not--’

‘Don’t lie to me, Dean.’ The only problem is that anger and resentment turn quickly into misery. Castiel hates the catch he can hear in his voice. He speaks right over Dean. ‘Whatever you meant to say, whatever you _thought_ you were saying, what you _did_ was throw me out, tell me I wasn’t important, didn’t matter to you. If my abilities as a hunter didn’t matter, then why should anything else? I was clearly only of value so long as I had...had angel juice. Once that was gone...Castiel makes a fluttering gesture with the fingers of one hand. ‘What use was the rest of me?’

Dean is gaping at him and it takes several minutes for silence for him to draw a deep breath and close his mouth. ‘That’s not what I meant, Cas. At all.’

‘You’re lying again,’ Castiel says flatly. Without Grace he has no idea if that’s true or not, but it stops Dean from saying things that sound too sweet, too much like the things he says when Castiel dreams. 

‘I’m--’ Dean reaches out across the table to him, draws his hand back, then sets his jaw and reaches out again, laying his fingers over the back of Castiel’s hand. ‘Look at me, Cas. I’m not lying.’

‘You _know_ I can’t tell that without--’

 _‘Christ,_ just look at me!’ Dean shakes his hand on the table and Castiel looks up at him.

For a minute, he sees nothing more than what he expects to see. Dean. Slightly flushed. Eyes a little too bright. Mouth set. Hair a tiny bit too long over his ears. Scatter of dark freckles over his nose and cheekbones. Castiel knows there are other, lighter ones over his throat and shoulders, but-- It comes like a rush of cold water and he almost gasps. Part of him wants to fight it, wants to argue back, but his mouth is opening before he can stop himself. ‘You’re -- not lying.’

Dean relaxes visibly. ‘See? I said--’

‘Or you _think_ you’re not,’ Castiel says flatly, pulling his hand free. ‘You broke my heart, Dean.’ This isn’t what he had planned to say and the look on Dean’s face almost makes him stop but if this is his one chance before Dean vanishes again, then he’s going to take it. ‘It was bad enough not being able to protect you, not being able to be with you, not being able to see you and know you were safe or -- or not. But after we -- after we -- were together -- like that and -- and to have you throw me out--’

‘I _didn’t_ throw you out!’ There’s pure agony in Dean’s voice now and Castiel stops, a tiny bit ashamed of himself. ‘You think I could do that? You think I could just stand there in cold blood and tell you to hit the fuckin’ road? Never come back? Just...don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out? Jesus, Cas!’

‘Then what?’ Castiel sits back in his chair, dropping his hands in his lap. ‘What _were_ you trying to tell me?’

Dean opens his mouth -- shut it again -- opens it -- shuts it -- ‘I... I want to make it up to you.’

‘Make...What? What are you talking about?’

‘I want to make it up to you. You’re right: I treated you like shit and -- and I should apologize. I want to apologize.’ Dean lifts his glass as if to take another sip but it’s empty. ‘I know -- I know you wanna move on and...and forget all about it and date chicks or whatever. April‘r...someone else. But -- but this...what I did was...the wrong thing to do. And this night hasn’t been a lot better. You deserve a decent first date.’

‘Dean -- what the hell are you talking about?’ Castiel does a quick count in his head; there is no way that three shots of whiskey, however quickly taken, should have made Dean unreasonable.

‘A first date,’ Dean repeats patiently. ‘You deserve a good one.’

‘And you will be the one to do this?’ Castiel can’t help the dubiousness in his voice.

Dean shrugs, then nods. ‘I can do a hell of a lot better than April.’

Castiel takes a deep breath, ready to defend the indefensible -- and Dean looks up at him, absolutely serious. ‘Please, Cas. Just -- let me.’

Castiel sits back, biting the inside of his lip hard to keep from blurting out agreement. He wants to agree with that look, the pleading that even his human senses can feel coming from Dean. 

And -- what had his interest in April or Nora been, really? Flattery? Wishful thinking? Had he been, honestly, attracted to either of them? 

‘All right. Yes.’ The words come out almost before he thinks but -- he doesn’t regret them. He suspects that if he wanted to examine his own thinking a little more closely, he’d find--- But he doesn’t want to examine it. If Dean wants to try to make something up to him, fine; let him try. The worst that could happen was Castiel would end up with a good meal and more resentment.

Dean grins at him and Castiel fights not to grin back. ‘C’mon, then.’ Dean pulls a five out of his wallet, drops it on the table, and grabs Castiel’s hand, pulling him up out of his seat.

* * *

Outside, a fine cold rain is falling and Dean hurries them across the parking lot to the car. When he pulls out his keys, something snaps inside of Castiel and he pulls his hand free from the comforting warmth of Dean’s. ‘This is _still_ your idea of a date?’

‘What?’ Dean turns back to him, keys in the lock.

‘The back seat of the car? Again?’

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘No! Jesus, you don’t think much of me, do you? Not the back seat of the car--’

‘Like our _real_ first date?’ Castiel interposes.

Dean flushes, the dark rush of blood visible even in the poor light of the streetlamp. ‘...not like our real first date, no. Will you just get in the damned car?’

* * *

The restaurant was actually -- nice. Castiel has no idea when Dean had had time to find it or if he had simply chosen a direction to drive until he saw something promising.

The sign out front says “Heaven’s Own” but Castiel chooses to keep his mouth shut about that one. He sees the half-apologetic, half-‘please laugh with me about this’ look Dean shoots him out of the corner of his eye and chooses not to return it.

The waitress leads them to a table set in a wide bow window. There was room for two tables, but there was only one, almost divided from the room by the dark red curtain that draped the alcove. 

Dean grins at Cas as they sit down. ‘I could’ve planned this and it wouldn’t’ve worked out so well.’

Castiel bites back a tart response and thinks back to what had actually happened the first time: a pitcher of cheap beer, a few fumbles in the men’s room, and the back seat of the Impala. He tries to stifle that memory: the humidity, the smell, the feel of Dean’s sweat-slick skin--- _No._

He comes back to the present moment to realise that Dean’s talking to the waitress, their voices too low for him to catch. The young woman is shooting stealthy glances at him and nodding in response to whatever Dean is saying. Fighting to keep his self-righteous anger ablaze, Castiel thinks that Dean might well be making a date with _her_ for later in the evening.

‘The wine first, please,’ Dean says and the waitress nods and vanishes.

‘Wine?’

Dean smiles at him. ‘Yeah. Wait and see.’

‘I was going to bring her a flower,’ Castiel blurts out instead of making some sharp comment about Dean and wine and Hell freezing over. ‘Nora. I was going to bring her a flower.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I -- I would like to have one for you.’ Castiel waits for the chilling rush of humiliation but -- it doesn’t come. He genuinely _does_ wish he had the flower for the man sitting across from him. With that straightforward thought, some conception of the depth of his feeling dawns on him and he nearly says it aloud in his shock. He wants _Dean_ to enjoy this -- this date; he wants Dean to want to do it again; he wants Dean-- 

And he realises he might as well put a full stop at the end of that sentence. 

He wants Dean.

And it isn’t the muscle of his forearms or the triangle of collarbone he can see when Dean shrugs off his jacket though those have their place. 

He’s missed Dean’s voice, his laugh, the abstracted humming sound he makes when he’s focusing on something. He’s missed the smell of Dean’s skin and the faint sweetness of the cheap laundry detergent he and Sam use. He’s missed being able to tell Dean what he’s seen during the day and having Dean laugh at him.

‘Don’t worry about it. ‘m not much of a fan of flowers.’ Dean leans back as the waitress returns and pours their wine glasses full. ‘I think this’ll make up for it.’

Castiel doesn’t realise he’s staring, his mouth almost hanging open, until Dean gives him a funny look, eyes dark, brows knitted together. ‘Cas? Y’okay, man?’

‘Yes -- I’m -- I am fine.’ Castiel picks up his glass and takes a sip, watching Dean do the same across from him. Two thoughts hit him at almost the same time: he’s never seen Dean drink wine before and if wine glasses become a new fetish for him because of Dean’s fingers, that’s going to be a problem; and right at this moment, he knows _exactly_ what Dean’s lips taste like. His mouth goes dry at the thought.

‘Remember that club we went to?’

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes another sip of wine instead; it’s good -- dry and rich. He has no idea how the hell Dean knew what to ask for. ‘Which one? There have been a few.’

‘In Maine. That one.’ Dean’s grinning at him again, but this is a softer, almost fond expression.

‘What makes you think of that?’ Castiel puts the glass down, afraid that the shaking in his chest will be visible in his hands. 

He doesn’t want this, he tries to tell himself; he doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to _want_ this. Dean’s using him, wants something from him -- something to do with Sam, probably, if history proves true. Probably something dangerous or difficult or both. Perhaps something that involves risking his life or betraying some kind of sacred knowledge. 

And he’d have a much easier time believing all of that if Dean wasn’t sitting right across from him and making every nerve ending he owns tingle. It isn’t just that he wants to taste the wine in Dean’s mouth; he wants to tell him about the annoying customer who comes in every morning at 7.30 for a large coffee and always, _always_ pays in small change, counting out every single coin; he wants to tell him about the strange dingy light in his “room” at sunrise and sunset and how lonely it makes him feel; he wants to tell him about the occasional sweet jazz that rises up from some other block and echoes in through the window. 

And then he wants to kiss him.

Dean shrugs. ‘Don’t know, really. Passed a place that looked like it coming into town. Maybe that was it.’

‘Any good girls there?’ Castiel can’t restrain the tart question.

Dean looks up at him. ‘I wasn’t the one with a date tonight.’

Castiel grimaces, then sighs. ‘Yes.’

‘Did -- are -- did you like her?’

Castiel shrugs. ‘She was...nice.’

‘And nice does it for you, huh?’

Castiel looks at him squarely for a minute and thinks, _No. No, not really. Because you’re not nice at all. You never have been, not since you were a child._ ‘No.’ He leans forward across the table and Dean mirrors him. ‘But your technique was nothing to write home about.’

‘Oh, and hers was better?’ Dean snorts, leaning back in his chair, but he’s laughing as he says it. ‘Christ, man, I thought you were gonna pass out!’

‘Me! What about you? You were barely standing up!’

‘I had more to drink than you!’

‘Oh, yes, and -- what was her name---’ Castiel taps a finger against his lip as if trying to remember something. ‘Harmony, was it?’

‘Somethin’ like that.’ Dean rolls the base of the wine-glass around on the table, the corner of his mouth still quirked up. ‘She didn’t taste as good as you, though.’ His eyes flick up and Castiel’s caught again.

‘I...I didn’t _plan_ that,’ Castiel says, hearing the catch in his voice and knowing Dean will hear it, too. ‘What happened. Kissing you. It just--’

‘Happened, I know.’ Dean shrugs. ‘Maybe...maybe that’s all it was. Maybe we should’ve left it there.’

Castiel’s gut clenches. ‘I...’ It wasn’t as though there had been a lot after that, but what there had been were memories he saved for dark nights, when he didn’t understand the world around him, when he had no Winchesters to reach out to, no friendly growl of the Impala’s engine, no Dean to tease him. ‘I do not think so.’

Dean cocks his head, leans forward -- and the waitress arrives.

* * *

Castiel slips away from the table as Dean tries to argue the waitress into a second free bottle of wine to go with dessert; the first, apparently, they’d gotten for “being the cutest thing she’d seen all day.” 

He doesn’t know who he’s looking for, but he picks the bartender because at least he isn’t talking to anyone.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘I -- I’d like to surprise my -- my friend,’ Castiel says, glancing back over his shoulder at Dean. The bartender follows his gaze and nods, but says nothing. ‘I know he has probably ordered something sweet for us but -- could I change it? Do--do you have pie? For dessert?’ He feels ridiculous. Pie at this place probably costs twenty a slice and comes sheathed in gold or something.

‘Apple, tonight, I think,’ the bartender says.

‘Perfect. Two pieces?’

‘Sure thing.’

* * *

Castiel makes a show of ducking down the short hallway to the bathroom, waiting a few minutes, then coming back to the table. Dean, typing something on his cellphone keypad, barely glances up and Castiel’s heart sinks. ‘Something important?’

Dean slides the phone back into his pocket and grins at him. ‘Nothin’ big.’

The waitress returns with two plates along her forearm and a (smaller) bottle of wine in her other hand. She slides the plates onto the table and hands the bottle to Dean with a wink.

‘Uh, I didn’t--’ Dean turns to call after her, pointing at the plate in front of him.

‘I did,’ Castiel says, picking up his fork.

‘You--what?’ Dean turns back, visibly startled.

‘You think you’re the only one capable of surprises?’ Castiel isn’t sure which is sweeter: the look of open bafflement on Dean’s face or the pie which is excellent. Still, the combination makes him nervous enough that he drinks a nearly-full glass of the pale golden wine before he realises how strong it is. 

Dean slides a fold of bills under the edge of his plate and stands up. ‘C’mon, man. Lets go clubbing.’

‘I -- what?’ Castiel stares at the hand Dean has stretched out to him and stumbles to his feet.

‘I saw a nice lookin’ place earlier. Thought we could check it out.’ Dean’s tone is carefully neutral and Castiel can’t see his face clearly as he shrugs on his jacket. 

‘I can’t dance, Dean--’ If this is some elaborate plan either to win back his goodwill to help Sam or to distract him from his anger -- well, then Dean is alarmingly close to succeeding. 

Dean smiles at him and takes his hand, sliding their palms together before Castiel can protest or pull away. And, if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I don’t want another girl.’ Castiel isn’t sure he meant to say that aloud and he feels Dean freeze momentarily mid-step beside him.

‘It’s...not that kind of place.’ Dean takes a breath as if he’s going to continue -- but says nothing. His hand tightens around Castiel’s fingers for a minute. 

‘Dean, what--’ 

‘C’mon, just trust me, okay?’ Dean pushes the door open and the rush of cold, damp air serves to knock some of the wine out of Castiel’s head.

‘I have heard that one before.’

‘Yeah, I know you have.’ 

‘So tell me--’ Castiel puts his back against the driver’s door of the Impala, boldly facing Dean. ‘--what you are doing.’

Dean bites his lip and takes a step back, then forward again. He shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets. ‘Look, I’m just -- tryin’ to do what I said, okay? Give you a good first date.’

‘And this is what you do with _all_ your first dates?’ Castiel says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Expensive restaurants, wine--’

‘Oh, and you snuck off and ordered dessert for April? Brought her ice cream and chocolate sauce to go with the pie, huh?’

‘No! You know I--’ Castiel bites off the rest of the sentence, unwilling to give Dean any more confirmation for what he clearly already knows.

‘No, me neither.’ Dean takes the final step forward and Castiel would move back but the car is immobile at his back. He’s practically toe to toe with Dean; if he wanted to, he could count the freckles on Dean’s cheekbones. ‘So what do you think I’m doing, Cas?’

‘I -- I don’t know.’

‘Really? I think you do...’ Dean is leaning forward, his shoulder brushing Castiel’s, and Castiel swallows against dryness as he feels Dean’s fingers brush the side of his throat, tracing warm lines down to the collar of his shirt. 

‘Getting me drunk won’t work.’

‘Man, I’m not _trying_ to get you drunk.’ Dean’s thumb flicks at his lower lip and Castiel swallows again. ‘I’m _trying_ \-- I’m trying to be a gentleman on your first date.’ He grins but his eyes are dark and watchful and Castiel doesn’t smile back.

‘This is gentlemanly?’ Castiel gives up and puts his hands on Dean’s hips, bracing his hands on Dean’s belt. He’s rewarded by seeing Dean’s eyes flash wide.

‘Well, you started it.’ Dean’s voice is more of a murmur, almost lost under the rush of a passing car. 

‘Did I.’ Castiel’s voice is flat.

‘I didn’t mean --’ Dean cups his hand against Castiel’s cheek. ‘I never meant you to think I was throwing you out -- I just -- Cas, I didn't...there wasn't anything else I could do. If I could tell you the whole thing, I would but--’

‘It’s all right.’ It isn’t -- not quite, but it’s a little closer than it was.

‘And I don’t -- I don’t want you to vanish on me, okay? I don’t want to come lookin’ for you and find you’ve -- picked up and fucked off. Got a job at a better grocery store in -- Nevada or somethin’.’

 _Ah._ Castiel feels his heart chill a little and silently berates himself -- but if all of this is a ploy to keep him in tow, then why is Dean’s hand still on his cheek?

‘If you’re gonna date...people, women, whatever, then you should at least have somethin’ good to compare ‘em with.’

That’s a tone Castiel knows; that’s Winchester bravado. He tilts his head, staring Dean down. ‘And this is what you want me to do? Find other people to compare with y--’

Dean leans forward and kisses him, hard, pushing against his mouth. With a gasp, Castiel kisses back, tasting wine and apples and sugar in the corners of Dean’s lips. Dean pulls back, far enough that his breath is still brushing Castiel’s mouth. ‘Fuck. _No,_ I don’t want that.’

* * *

The club is a low building down near the river; it’s foggier there, the air heavier and wetter. Castiel knows he isn’t paying enough attention to what’s around him but he’s distracted by the feel of the air between himself and Dean; it isn’t what it was, not hostile or angry any more. But it also isn’t what he’d like it to be -- for one thing, there’s too much of it.

Dean catches his hand as soon as he steps around the front bumper of the car and tugs him along the narrow paved path through the front door. Inside the club is dim, too, but it’s warm and smells slightly of amber incense. 

Dean nods at the girl behind a tall desk just inside the door. She waves them through double swinging doors into a wide bar-room. The walls are lined with high-walled booths, almost enough to make each table into its own private space. There are a few men -- mostly in couples or small groups -- scattered through and a small group of women gathered around a table at the far wall, laughing among themselves. 

‘Dean -- what is this place?’ Castiel steps into the seat Dean waves him to. They’re in another small nook, this one near the back wall of the -- whatever this is. There’s a broad window beside them and they can see out over the darkened river. Castiel can see shadows of a paved path and lights along it; in good weather, it must be a lovely stroll along the riverbank.

‘Just a bar. Nicer than the other one, though.’ Dean slings his jacket over the back of his chair and nods to the bartender. ‘Be right back.’

Castiel watches the river slide by, listens to the women’s voices rise and fall behind him. 

When Dean comes back, he has two steaming cups and slides one in front of Castiel. ‘What’s this?’

‘Try it.’ Dean sits down. ‘You’ll like it, I promise.’

Castiel sniffs at the steam; it’s coffee, strong, laced and sweet. He takes a hesitant sip; it burns on the tongue but only for a moment and converts into heavy dark sweetness with a hint of oranges. Dean’s watching him over the edge of his own cup. ‘Very good.’

‘Thought you’d like it.’ Dean takes a sip from his own cup and glances out the window.

‘You didn’t answer me. How did you know about this place?’

Dean looks back at him and, for a brief moment, Castiel sees calculation flash into his eyes and he knows with a sinking feeling that Dean is about to lie to his face again. 

And he never knows what he does -- whether he sighs without realising it or shifts in his chair or if something in his face changes -- but Dean’s lips move for a minute, then he plants both hands palm down on the table and looks at Castiel. ‘When I was a kid. About...sixteen, seventeen. Dad and I came through here. There were vampires -- nest of ‘em--’ He waves a hand as if, in the scheme of things, vampires aren’t that important. ‘Anyway, this guy. He didn’t know Dad but he knew one of Dad’s friends. So _he_ called Dad and… We came. And. This guy.’

Castiel is starting to have an unpleasant prickling feeling at the base of his skull. He’s learned to listen to this feeling over the years; it never means anything good. ‘Dean--’

Dean glances up at him again, almost desperate. ‘No, look, it wasn’t like that, okay? He was -- Nice. He was… really nice. And--’

‘And he brought you….here.’ Castiel isn’t sure if he means it as a question or not but Dean takes it as a statement.

Dean nods. ‘Yeah. I don’t know -- I mean, I had _no_ tolerance, okay? It’s not like Matt knew that...’

 _Matt,_ Castiel thinks. Ordinary name.

‘...two beers and I was _gone.’_

Now Castiel’s sure; he isn’t questioning or confirming: he’s _furious._ It comes over him all at once, like hot water dumped over his head and he can’t breathe for a minute or two.

Dean is still talking, rambling a little and not looking up at Castiel any more. ‘It was just -- nothing really happened. I mean...’ He rubs a hand over his head in a gesture Castiel recognizes with a painful sharpness. ‘...I mean, _really_ nothing happened. We...we made out for a while and --’

There’s a second bucket of hot water.

‘--I --’ Dean’s blushing a little now and still scrubbing his palm through his hair. ‘I mean, I tried to -- it’s not like you’ve got a lot of stamina when you’re seventeen--’

A third bucket. ‘Dean. You don’t need to tell me this.’ 

Dean blinks at him and the blush deepens. ‘Sorry, I -- uh -- yeah...sorry.’

Castiel winds his fingers around the warm mug and stares into it, trying to erase the image of Dean and some -- some near- _stranger--_ had he been taller than Dean? had Dean leaned into him or had to bend to him? Perhaps he had been tall, dark -- like that television character Dean was so fond of, someone who had been handsome all his life and no longer gave it any thought. Someone who could sweet-talk teenagers without even _trying_. Someone who would never be cast aside or left behind or thrown out--

‘Cas?’ 

Dean’s fingers brush the back of his hand and, before he can think about it, Castiel closes his hand over Dean’s wrist as if the other man were standing there, ready to whisk him away. He looks up and Dean is watching him, his mouth quirking slightly, almost as if he wants to laugh but not quite. ‘I --’

‘You asked.’

‘Yes. I did. Is he still here? This man?’

‘Matt? Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe.’ Dean shrugs. ‘Does it matter? What -- you want to meet him?’

‘No. I do not want _you_ to.’

‘I--what?’

Castiel swallows hard, carefully unclenching his fingers from around Dean’s wrist. ‘I -- am -- distressed. By that story.’

‘You look pissed,’ Dean says bluntly.

Castiel swallows again, fixing his gaze on the steam rising from his mug. He takes another sip, savors the faint flavor of oranges. The feeling of being dumped in hot water is fading -- slowly -- but just thinking of what Dean would have looked like, at seventeen, here, half-drunk, with _someone else_ \-- is enough to bring it crashing back.

‘Come back with me.’

‘What?’ He looks up at Dean sharply.

Dean is leaning forward across the table, his fingertips barely brushing the back of Castiel’s hands. His eyes are wide and dark and the tip of his tongue darts over his lips. He looks as if he wants to smile but doesn’t quite dare. ‘Come back with me. Sam -- Sam’s not here. Just...come back with me.’

* * *

The room is a genuine Winchester special. Castiel stands in the doorway, not sure if he feels nostalgic or revolted. 

The wallpaper is deep purple; he can only assume this is to match the carpet and the bedcovers which are nearly the same shade but not _quite_. The dissonance is enough to make his head start to ache slightly. The sprawling pattern on the paper doesn’t help, either; it looks as if the designer had crushed a chrysanthemum petals-down every few inches. The single window is draped with thick purple swags that look laden with dust. The dark wooden table beside the window is scarred with old cigarette burns and the bureau doubling as a TV stand doesn’t look a lot better.

‘Comin’ in or you just gonna stand there all night?’ Dean tosses his jacket on one of the beds and looks at him.

The ride in the car had been almost wordless. Castiel couldn’t think of what to say and Dean seemed to feel he’d said enough. Which, perhaps, he had. ‘Is this--’

‘A motel room? Yeah. Fuckin’ ugly? Also yes.’ Dean sits down on the end of the bed and begins to unlace his boots.

Castiel takes the last step into the room and lets the door shut behind him. ‘Is this still gentlemanly behavior?’

Dean looks up at him, half-laughing before he realises Castiel is not joking. ‘Fuck. No, Cas, it’s --’

‘Opportunity. Chance. Just like every other time we had -- an afternoon without Sam, a night with Bobby out of the house, a couple of hours with the door locked and hoping no-one hears us.’ Castiel swallows hard against the bitterness welling up in his throat, mixed with the aftermath of the alcohol. 

‘No.’ And Dean is right in front of him, pushing him back against the wall, a hand on either side of his head, too close to ignore, too close for Castiel to close his eyes and pretend Dean isn’t there.

‘I don’t want to think about you with someone else.’ The words come out before Cas is ready for them and he gets ready for Dean’s disbelief, mockery, laughter. The words are a pale expression of the feeling the thought makes in his chest: like being the worst kind of hungry and knowing he can never have anything to eat again.

Dean shakes his head. His thumb traces over Castiel’s mouth again, leaving a feeling of heat and a taste of salt. ‘Christ, I’m glad that lady was a crazy bitch.’ He presses the pad of his thumb against Castiel’s lower lip and Castiel clenches his teeth against the urge to bite. He lets his mouth open slightly, though, tasting the salt tang of Dean’s skin and sees Dean’s eyes go dark. A nip on the thumb is hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to a Winchester and Cas bites just hard enough for Dean to feel the pressure.

 _‘Jesus...’_ The word is barely a breath against his skin and Dean looks frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel feels something hot and liquid and _strong_ uncurling in his belly, tingling up through his chest and into his hands. He slides his hands up Dean’s arms, catches a handful of his shirt, and spins him around. Dean hits the wall with a thump that unglazes his eyes. He stares at Castiel for a minute, then says, ‘It isn’t like that. Sam’s not here anyway.’

Castiel has to focus for a minute before he realises what Dean’s saying. ‘Of course he isn’t. You wouldn’t risk any harm coming to him, would you?’

Dean’s eyes flash green and, before Castiel can do anything else, Dean’s hands are fisted in his shirt, crumpling the thin material. Some part of his mind thinks they must look ridiculous, like bad boxers in a clinch. ‘Do you think I _wanted_ to do it? Spend all my time with some fucking tight-ass angel? I don't even fucking know where Sam _is_ \--’

‘I think you would do anything to keep Sam from harm.’

‘Damn fucking straight I would! But don’t you think for one _fucking_ minute I _wanted_ to get rid of you. Don’t you fucking _dare.’_ Dean’s hands tighten almost convulsively. ‘If I wanted to get rid of you so fucking bad, then why am I here, huh? Why’d I come all this goddamned way--’

There isn’t anything new in this; it’s not that Castiel doesn’t believe him, it’s more that he feels he _should_ disbelieve him. On principle, as it were. But he doesn’t want to; he wants Dean to be telling the truth, wants him to have hated this decision, wants him to have regretted it, wants to have been _missed._

Dean’s still talking and his words aren’t saying anything new but kissing Dean has always been a reliable way of shutting him up and it doesn’t fail now. His lips move for a second under Castiel’s, then Dean’s hands flatten against his chest, then find his shirt again, fisting in the material, yanking Castiel closer.

Castiel pulls back only when he has no breath left and Dean leans in, resting his forehead against Castiel’s. ‘I would’ve come sooner, Cas. I...I wanted to. I just -- I thought -- maybe you’d be good. On your own. Without...without us around.’

 _Without me_ are the unspoken words and Castiel wants to shake him. If he thought for a minute Dean was fishing for a compliment, he’d leave him standing. But he isn’t; Dean’s never worked like that. He doesn’t do subtlety, doesn’t do subterfuge; if he thinks something, it shows in his eyes, comes out in his voice.

‘I thought you didn’t want me anymore,’ Castiel says because it’s true. ‘I thought you’d gotten what you wanted from me and that was it.’

Dean gasps in breath as though Castiel had punched him again and his face nearly crumples. For a minute, Castiel thinks he’s going to cry. ‘Fuck, Cas, _no,_ that -- I -- that’s not what I wanted.’

‘So what the hell _do_ you want? Why are you _here?’_ It isn’t what he meant to say but judging from the sudden spark in Dean’s eyes, it may have been the right thing to say. Dean’s hands are cupping his face, rough palms against his jaw, and Dean’s mouth surprisingly gentle on his.

Castiel lets Dean spin him around and nudge him until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Dean starts to take a step away, drawing a breath like he’s going to say something. Rather than letting him, Castiel catches his shirt front and hauls him down onto the bed, twisting to lean over him. He takes a minute to kick off his shoes and finds Dean grinning at him when he turns back. 

‘What?’

‘Miss me much?’ Dean cocks his head, grins, links his hands behind his head. The move pulls his white t-shirt out of his jeans and tightens it across his breastbone, highlighting the smooth rise of muscle below his throat. 

Castiel just looks for a minute, _lets_ himself look. If this is true -- if this room is theirs for the night and Dean really is-- then he has time to look. 

So he lets his eyes wander, his hand follow them, stroking up over Dean’s thigh and feeling the unevenness of loose change in his pocket, then the unexpected warmth and smoothness of skin, the beginnings of the rough scatter of hair that leads downwards. He pauses there, hand above Dean’s hip, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

Dean’s eyes are wide when he looks up, the corner of his mouth still quirked up in the teasing grin, but he’s breathing fast and Castiel can see his pupils wide and dark.

Deliberately, Castiel swings a leg over Dean’s hips and settles his weight across Dean’s thighs, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of Dean’s ribs. Dean’s hands rest on his hips, fingers tightening a little as if to hold Castiel in place.

Castiel leans forward, nuzzling the collar of the t-shirt down and licking at the exposed skin, tracing a line with his mouth over Dean’s collarbone to the soft spot below his ear. He can feel Dean swallow and the convulsive jerk of his fingers.

‘Cas, I...I didn’t want…’

‘I’ll make it simple, Dean.’ Castiel kisses his earlobe, bites the curve of his ear gently. He lets his hips rock down and forward and hears Dean catch his breath.

‘Simple. Okay. Simple...simple’s good.’ Dean rocks up against him reflexively and Castiel can feel the swell under his zipper, knows it must be uncomfortable. He slips a hand down between them, pressing his knuckles against Dean’s cock, his fingertips against his own. 

Dean pushes up into his hand and Castiel leans back slightly, lightening the pressure. ‘Tell me simple has something to do with getting naked.’

Castiel presses his thumb against the button of Dean’s fly. ‘My hands -- or my mouth. Which?’

Dean gapes at him in silence for a minute, then blinks slowly. ‘I--’

‘Which?’ Castiel flicks the button open, then pushes the t-shirt the rest of the way up so it bunches around Dean’s shoulders and under his arms. He takes another minute to look, tracing fingertips over the skin he’d tried not to think about.

‘I -- just -- Cas, I really can’t think when you do that!’

Castiel hums around the rapidly hardening nipple in his mouth, not bothering to look up. One of Dean’s hands is in his hair, stroking over the back of his neck and gripping gently just below the base of his skull, a familiar pressure.

‘Okay, okay, hands -- hands!’

Castiel traces the curve of the pectoral muscle with his tongue, pushing himself up onto his knees so Dean can wriggle free of his jeans. He hadn’t expected Dean to shove his own trousers down with them but it isn’t worth arguing about. The sudden feeling of skin against skin is -- distracting in any case. He can feel the rough hair on Dean’s shins against the inside of his knees, a faint tickling sensation. More critically, there’s only a thin layer of cloth between his fingers and Dean’s dick -- and between Dean’s thigh and his own. The pressure makes him painfully aware of how hard he is and he’s pushing down and up against Dean’s hip before he can stop himself, streaking hot dampness against his own skin.

‘Jesus -- fuck, come on, come on--’ Dean fumbles at the cloth separating them and Castiel hears stitches tear. ‘Fuck, sorry, sorry -- I just -- I -- fuck it, I’ll buy you a new pair...’ 

‘What?’ Before he can say anything else, cloth rips -- and there’s nothing between them. 

Castiel thinks he tries to say something, but what comes out is a choked gasp.

‘Oh, Jesus...oh, _fuck,_ Cas---’ Dean catches his shoulders and yanks him down, breaking Castiel’s determination to keep this on his terms, by his rules. He can’t think that clearly skin to skin with Dean, the tang of sweat on his tongue, and Dean’s hands rough on his back under his shirt. 

If he can’t keep control of this, then he’s going to do what he wants. Pulling free of Dean’s hands awkwardly, Castiel pushes himself backwards until he’s kneeling on the floor between Dean’s bare feet.

‘Cas...what...’ Dean cranes upwards, propping himself on an elbow.

Castiel doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, he leans forward and licks a long stripe from balls to the swollen head of Dean’s cock.

‘Holy--- _fuck!’_ Dean flops backwards, hips jerking upwards.

Castiel licks his lips, savoring a flavor he hadn’t been sure he liked until he didn’t get to have it any more. He hasn’t found anything that even remotely resembles it: salt, dark, sweet-- The feel in his mouth, too: the sensation of fullness, _closeness_ \-- it’s enough to make his own cock ache and he shoves the heel of his hand against it, impatient with the demand. He braces one hand on Dean’s hip, firm enough to keep Dean from choking him by accident, and presses his other thumb behind Dean’s balls, seeking for the sensitive spot Dean always liked so much. 

Dean’s just making choked, incoherent noises now, his hands opening and closing against Castiel’s shoulders without any clear aim. His blunt fingernails scratch down over Castiel’s shoulder blades and, without warning, Dean’s pushing himself up to sitting.

Regretfully, Castiel has to let the hot, silky bulk slip from his mouth; he looks up at Dean almost resentfully. ‘What?’

‘Here--- _here--’_ Dean’s barely vocal but insistent: he slides his hands under Castiel’s arms and, before Castiel quite knows what’s going on, his shirt’s gone and Dean’s dragging him onto the bed. Dean’s muttering something at him, hands a little uncertain on Castiel’s body: ‘Jesus... _fuck,_ Cas, I...I never…I didn’t...’

Castiel would really like to think he’s maintaining some kind of dignity or control over this situation but Dean’s thumbs press hard over his nipples and scratch dull lines over his ribs and low back and he’s gasping and thrusting up against Dean’s hip without any real plan.

 _‘...missed_ you...’ Dean’s voice is low and fierce against his shoulder. ‘Fuck, I missed you...’ 

‘’m here...I’m here…’ Castiel fumbles his way down Dean’s body, pressing his mouth over any skin that presents itself: collarbone, throat, shoulder, ear. Dean groans as Castiel’s fingers stroke over the length of his cock, pressing dampness over silk-smooth skin. 

‘Just...just...just come back with me, okay? Just...don’t... _fuck---’_ Dean breaks off with a harsh gasp as Castiel thumbs over the head of his cock, squeezing hard just for a minute, then slipping his palm over the length of it.

Castiel closes his eyes hard, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, feeling Dean’s hand on the back of his head, fingers wide and warm. When he speaks, he can feel his lips brushing against the hollow of Dean’s breast. ‘No-one else.’

‘What...what?’ Dean’s free hand is momentarily hard against Castiel’s ass, pulling their bodies flush for a minute before letting go and becoming an agonizingly pleasurable grip around his cock. The sensation shorts out Castiel’s brain for a minute, leaving him incapable of doing much more than gasp. He pulls himself back together and circles his fingers around Dean’s length; it’s strange that his muscles remember how to do this so well: the pressure Dean likes, the twist at the base that strokes Castiel’s knuckles over Dean’s balls that has him moaning deep in his throat. 

‘No-one else.’

‘No-one else what, Cas?’ Dean’s fingers are in his hair, pressing against his scalp and Castiel can barely resist the urge to rut up against him like a cat.

‘No-one else--’ Dean’s hand tightens around his dick and Castiel chokes, the heat in his gut sparking up into something he’s not going to be able to control a lot longer. Suddenly desperate to have his say _before_ that happens, he scrabbles and catches Dean’s chin, bringing startled green eyes around to his. ‘No-one else gets to do _this.’_ He emphasizes his point with tightened fingers and feels the muscles of Dean’s abdomen start to tremble against him.

Dean shakes his head, eyes closing involuntarily as he arches up against Castiel’s hip. ‘Nope...just...no...fucking... _Jesus--’_ The words vanish into a throaty groan and Dean comes in a hot pulse; the tightening of his hand is enough to send Castiel after him, making a mingled mess of the bed between them. 

* * *

Castiel and Dean sit side by side in the car and don’t look at each other.

Sunlight is starting to flood in from the far end of the street, brightening buildings and striking sparks off of parked cars. The last few puddles left in doorways and under cars and in dips in the sidewalk are starting to shrink and dry already.

Dean shifts as though he’s going to say something, but doesn’t.

Castiel looks down at his hands for a minute but there’s no answer written on his skin. He pushes the door slightly open, relishing the solid mechanical _thunk_ of the opening mechanism, then glances back at Dean -- who is looking over at him.

‘So...’ Dean licks his lips then leans in and gives him a quick kiss. ‘Uh. Yeah.’

‘So,’ Castiel echoes and curves his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him forward and pressing promises into his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> A few random authorial thoughts....
> 
> The wines Dean and Castiel drink: the [red](http://www.hahnfamilywines.com/wineInfoTemplate.asp?BrandID=14&WinesID=369), and [the dessert](http://stillriverwinery.com/); the [whiskey](http://www.glengoyne.com/) and the coffee drink at the bar is based off something I remember having at [this place in Vermont but the only ingredient I recall other than coffee is ](http://sweetwatersvt.com/menu/)[Cointreau](http://www.cointreau.us/).
> 
> We already wrote a prequel for this fic: [A Kiss for Valentine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1184226).
> 
> And Potteralda's awesome cover art!
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s958.photobucket.com/user/Angelica_Maria_Quintero/media/2014-02/74E40504-48CC-4785-900E-DA175A46ADA8_zpsbcn9bapy.jpg.html)  
>    
> 


End file.
